


77. No Attachment to Dust

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: In The Hands of Destiny [3]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, But the Series Continues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Pining, Prophetic Visions, Sparring, The Force, Training, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Lust, baze leaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-15 05:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10551218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: "This one just gets into trouble if you leave him alone for too long," Sister Alussa warned Baze in a whisper."Still blind, not deaf," Chirrut said.“I would never guess,” Baze said, looking forward as Alussa went to work tugging the dozens of stitches out of his skin—and it did sting and pull a little, but mostly it relieved so much of the pressure that it felt good as they came free and she rubbed disinfectant over the thread holes.“I’m going to cover a couple of these,” she said, in a distant tone. “But I’m glad I don’t have to tell you to start exercising again. Try and take things in steps.”“When can I go?” Baze asked, idly.Chirrut's head spun nearly all the way around as though to fix Baze with a stare, and if Baze didn't know any better, Chirrut looked almost—afraid. But he said nothing, and, almost as quickly, turned away.“Ah,” Baze corrected, peering over his shoulder. “When will I be healed enough to start working again?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're following the series and got a note that there was a chapter that disappeared, that would be May Glenn's fault. Ignore it. This is where you want to be. Happy Space Husbands (SpiritAssassin) Week! We'll be posting a new chapter to this series every day this week.

"Hand up," Chirrut encouraged, easing into the pose and looking back at Baze, as if he could see him. He grinned up at the sky, then, face pointed at the sun. "Up. Is your hand up?" 

“How  _ far _ up?” Baze asked, exasperated. His hand was currently pointing directly at the sky, and he could feel the stress all the way down into his shoulder—he’d lifted it a little higher every time Chirrut suggested ‘up,’ culminating in this ridiculous pose. 

"Then you strike fast, like this," he said, fist punching the air sharply, pulling back. "Only, don't tear your stitches. Is your hand up?"

“If I’m attacked by birds, I can defend myself with this form,” Baze muttered. “Do it again the proper way and I’ll copy you.” 

Chirrut laughed. "Okay, not that high. Sorry. Like this." 

He demonstrated the pose and strike again, and then felt his way over to Baze. In the sun, like this, exercising, they had both worked up a sweat, and Baze had taken off his shirt, which was definitely not the only reason Chirrut has his hands on Baze's shoulders. 

"Show me the pose," he asked, running hands down his arms to feel where his limbs were. He nudged Baze's feet until they were in correct form, too, and let his hands linger as he blushed and teased, "I'm not going too fast for you, am I?" 

It was strange to be warm here, but with the sun coming in, leaving a warm stripe over Baze’s back that soon slicked with sweat as he worked himself hard enough to start to regain strength, he was. Baze was content to push himself through a lot of repetitions of at least ten of however many of the ten thousand forms there actually were. His stitches itched, catching sweat, but he took it as a good sign. The sixteen in his side were the worst, pulling every time he moved too fluidly, aching to be scratched.

Baze let Chirrut shift his feet—bare, enjoying the warm tile of the courtyard beneath them. The stone felt ancient, and soaked up sun and held heat.

“It’s different from what I learned in the military,” Baze said, running through the form twice more with Chirrut’s hands helping to align his arms, feeling over his shoulder. He kept his own eyes forward—he’d been scolded too many times for turning his head and ‘unaligning’ himself. “If it’s all the same, I still think I’d rather have my blaster...”

Chirrut laughed, pretending to correct Baze's form just so he could keep touching him. "Here the forms are more important than the offensive applications. So, yes, using a blaster is really more effective. Unless you've trained for ten years like me," Chirrut said, sounding far more smug than a monk should sound.

“You can use this to defend yourself?” Baze wondered, letting the form drop at last when he realized Chirrut was just using it as an excuse to touch him. He was curious—he’d seen Chirrut take action in the past, but that was usually with his stick. Otherwise, he’d been peaceful. Graceful, deliberate...it left Baze curious. “Show me.”

Chirrut smiled, stretching idly, as though he absolutely did not intend to show him.

"But what would I defend myself against?" he asked, shirking off his own outer robe and leaving it draped over a bench.

“I know some CQC,” Baze, said, amused—interested to see how a competition would turn out. Chirrut was clearly strong, and clearly at no disadvantage because of his blindness. “I’m sure I can at least provide a moving target.”

They squared up, and Baze took a practical stance, expecting Chirrut to make the first move.

Chirrut surprised Baze by reaching out, sliding their forearms together.

"You. Try to hit me," he suggested.

Each time Baze flinched, Chirrut parried, using only the one arm and occasionally stepping out of the way. He smiled, keeping their arms touching, and knocked Baze's arm out of the way to slide a strike home, touching his chest and saying "Hit, hit," until Baze really fought back. For a few parries he had to use his other hand, deflecting each strike like he could see them coming—not just with his eyes but with the Force.

Baze got the idea pretty quickly, and slid in closer, putting the close into close quarters, snaking his arm around Chirrut’s and grappling him instead of trading blows at a distance, even when Chirrut thumped a blow against his kidney hard enough to make Baze cough, unerring. Then, suddenly, as he tried to tighten his grip, Baze was on the ground, not hard enough to do any real damage but firmly enough to make the point.

He laughed, startled. “You’ve been holding out on the good forms.”

"Well, usually a guy likes to be _asked_ first," Chirrut said, with a dangerously flirty air. He pulled Baze back to his feet and set his stance again, still grinning.

"Again? But be gentle, it's my first time." He laughed, then, and came at Baze swinging, those same precise, fluid movements, still _peaceful_ somehow, even if he was attacking.

“It’s clearly  not,” Baze laughed, but he felt good—it was easy to spar with Chirrut and to forget that either of them had any reason not to be good at it. Chirrut never missed a beat, and Baze felt slow and dogged and heavy in comparison, but he knew enough to turn Chirrut’s center of balance against him when he could get a good hold—so Chirrut did his best to avoid getting pinned down. He let loose a frustrated growl when Chirrut threw him again, laughing. “What was that about asking?”

Chirrut patted his chest companionably.

"Maybe we should negotiate a safeword," he said, helping Baze to his feet again. It felt _wonderful_ to spar with Baze, not because it was easy but because it was _freeing_. It felt like they were getting to know each other. Already Baze was aware he was the stronger and bigger, and Chirrut had to dance to keep him from getting a hold of him, but as long as that didn't happen, Chirrut had the clear advantage. "And you're still recovering."

“What would you know about safewords?” Baze grumbled, stretching himself, checking his injuries—but the stitches were strong, and the skin beneath holding. “You’re supposed to be a pious monk.”

Chirrut snapped his fingers.

"I know how we can make it even! I'll wear a blindfold!" he said, and laughed at his own joke.

Baze was starting to stretch out again when Chirrut made his terrible joke—and then laughed at it—and it was such a terrible joke that he clearly enjoyed making so much that Baze was startled into laughing along, in disbelief.

“Now we’re talking about safewords again,” Baze chuckled. “I yield for this round. I think these stitches are about ready to come out.”

"A convenient excuse," Chirrut said, but let it go, toeing around for his staff on the ground until he could launch it into his hands. He considered the sound of Baze's laughter the only victory he ever needed.

"We should go see Sister Alussa. She ought to be in the infirmary. Maybe your stitches can come out today. How do they feel, besides itchy?" His discomfort was pretty apparent, the way he squirmed at night.

Baze recovered his shirt, and then nudged Chirrut’s into his hand (very nearly perfectly accurate, but he had dropped his robes in a little bit of haste anyway). Before he put his shirt on, he reached back, easing his hand over the injuries he could reach.

“They’re knitting well,” he said. “I’m glad I can exercise again. Not long until I’m good as new again.”

"Not long," Chirrut agreed, glad to feel Baze without pain more and more each day. "Soon you'll be able to best me in hand to hand at least once out of ten matches," he teased.

“I put my odds at more like one in twenty, unless you let me win,” Baze admitted. “But I’ll get better.”

Pulling on his shirt, Baze hesitated. “What happened to Dyl?”

"He's cleaning, mostly," Chirrut supplied. "Chamber pots, you'll be glad to know. Not a lot of options with his record and his hand, so he'll take any menial task for a bed and a meal. I'm keeping an eye on him. But let's not think of him. You have nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety forms still to fill your mind with," he went on, his smile nervous and hopeful.

“I’d keep him occupied so he doesn’t get any bad ideas,” Baze grumbled—but he wasn’t displeased to hear that at least Dyl had healed and was being put to a better use than whatever it was he was doing with his life before. It seemed a very mild punishment for a murderer—an Imperial court would have likely sentenced him to death. Baze shook his head. “I have four. Unless one of the forms I was supposed to be learning was ‘flat on my back on the ground’?”

Chirrut could sense his companion's unease, but didn't press at it.

"No, we learned ten. Many of them are slight variations," Chirrut reminded him, stepped back, and demonstrated the poses, adding a few more by moving his toes or hands, where Baze had assumed it was all the same pose. "I mean, there are ten thousand of them, so the differences are subtle."

He grinned.

"If you want to know more poses for on your back, I'm pretty sure our library has a copy of the _Book of Desire_ ," he said, before leading the way to the infirmary, tapping his way along with his stick.

“I may know a few of those already,” Baze admitted, though he was surprised that Chirrut would mention it, and also surprised the library of a supposedly devout group—one who at least suggested that bodily purity would lead to spiritual purity—contained such a book. “But maybe you’ll go over those with me sometime.”

He wondered if he could ever get the upper hand verbally by pushing back when Chirrut said such suggestive things, but he doubted it. He fell in beside Chirrut, keeping pace and tucking his hands behind his back.

Chirrut turned his head toward Baze and smiled, thrilled more than a little at Baze playing along.

"Good. I'm sure you can teach me a pose or two," Chirrut suggested, blue eyes looking right past Baze. "You know, maybe have _me_  on my back once or twice."

He could almost feel Baze's blush from here, and tapped on the door to the infirmary. "Sister Alussa, are you in?"

"What _now_ Chirr—oh, hello, Baze," she said, dipping her head. "How are you feeling? Wanting those stitches out, I imagine? Sit down, we'll take a look."

Baze shrugged his shirt off again—he hadn’t bothered to tie it in front for the short trip down to the infirmary.

“Good afternoon, Alussa,” he said, politely, taking a seat as instructed, and she investigated the stitches with careful fingers. “They’ve held up well at least.”

She hummed an agreement, checking things over. “I think I’d like the ones in the front of your shoulder to stay in a few more days. It’s an area that sees a lot of motion, and I’d like to keep it stable since I know between you and Chirrut I can’t count on you to take it easy on the joint...”

“Chirrut threw me on the mat twice today in practice,” Baze said, in the tone of a child telling on a cohort.

“Only twice?” Alussa said, recovering a small pair of scissors. “I think he likes you. This may pinch—do you want a painkiller?”

Baze shook his head.

"Alussaaaaaaaa," Chirrut whined, hitting the ground with his staff.

"Don't 'Alussaaaa' me," she said. "There are bandages three paces in front of you and a disinfecting station to the left. You should wind some up for me, since the last two reasons we're all out of bandages is your fault. Not you, Baze, dear," she added, patting his arm.

"This one just gets into trouble if you let him alone for too long," she whispered.

"Still blind, not deaf," Chirrut said, but he was dutifully disinfecting and winding bandages as instructed.

“I would never guess,” Baze said, looking forward as Alussa went to work tugging the dozens of stitches out of his skin—and it did sting and pull a little, but mostly it relieved so much of the pressure that it felt good as they came free and she rubbed disinfectant over the thread holes.

“I’m going to cover a couple of these,” she said, in a distant tone. “But I’m glad I don’t have to tell you to start exercising again. Try and take things in steps.”

“When can I go?” Baze asked, idly.

Chirrut's head spun nearly all the way around as though to fix Baze with a stare, and if he didn't know any better, Chirrut looked almost— _afraid_. But he said nothing, and, almost as quickly, returned to his task.

“Ah,” Baze corrected, peering over his shoulder. “When will I be healed enough to start working again?”

"Uh," Alussa said, unable to cover adequately for how awkward things had just become. "I think you should wait another week before doing anything strenuous. Uh, it might take several weeks to heal completely, though." 

She glanced at Chirrut's back, which gave nothing away.

"Maybe a month?" she tried, but she was pretty obviously lying now.

Baze kept his eyes forward trying to ignore Chirrut's blind, yet somehow piercing stare. He held still for Alussa to finish her work. She was quickly taping bandages over the tender scars, as Baze shifted and a shiver went through him as she moved over what were probably the itchiest spots.

“It’s been almost two months already,” Baze said, and then he cast a glance at Chirrut. “I can’t stay forever, eating your food and using up all your medical supplies...”

“Of course you should stay until you’re fully recovered though,” Alussa said. “Don’t worry about the rest, Baze. We enjoy having you.”

She gave him a pat, checked the one injury she hadn’t pulled the stitches out of, and pronounced him fit to go.

Chirrut guided Baze to the refectory, trying not to panic and not to even _think about_ what Baze had said. Go? He was going to _go_? Just thinking about it made him feel like there was a great sucking hole in his chest.

Was it possible he was _wrong_ about Baze Malbus?

"I, ah—second thought—I don't think I'm hungry," Chirrut said, stopping abruptly.

Baze hadn’t known Chirrut for very long—or perhaps he had. Sometimes their two months felt like the full five years that they had been aware of each other’s existence. Sometimes even five years didn’t feel like enough to encompass  how well they seemed to know each other. In some moments, it unsettled Baze a little. It was enough, now, that he could sense something was wrong. That something had changed.

“What’s wrong, Chirrut?” he asked, pulling his shirt tighter around himself and tying it. Once they’d left the courtyard, the cold of the planet had crept back in quickly. He wished he’d remembered to take the heavier outer robe.

"I—" Chirrut shifted, keeping his face pointed down as if to hide. He knew he had no control over what emotions his face expressed. He tried a few times to speak, and when Baze touched his arm, Chirrut yanked it back.

"You can't leave!” he snapped before he knew what he was saying, and he immediately quieted his outburst. “I mean you can. But you mustn't. You—"

That wasn’t right.

"I...I don't want you to,” he concluded.  

And that wasn't fair. Chirrut drew back, ashamed of himself and his carnality.

Baze studied Chirrut, surprised by his actions, and more deeply by his words. This must come back to that destiny thing—yet again that lack of a straight answer for Baze. Did it mean forever? Was he supposed to just...?

“Chirrut,” he said, wanting to comfort his friend—but he had nothing he _could_ say.

"I should—go," Chirrut said, and walked smack into a wall.

“I can’t stay forever...Chirrut, wait—damn it!” But Chirrut had wheeled away from him, stubbornly, angrily, and hit the wall behind him. In all their time together, Baze had never seen Chirrut run into a _wall_. Baze reached out, catching hold of Chirrut around his waist to steady him as he reeled back from the impact. “Are you okay?”

Baze was helplessly confused. How was he supposed to do this? Just do whatever he was told? Accept it because someone said he should? That sort of person was exactly what Chirrut seemed to be encouraging him _not_ to be.

_Where had that godsdamned wall come from?!_ Chirrut thought, anger flashing through him again before he got it under control. But it faded as soon as Baze had a hand on him, the fight and flight gone out of him. He swallowed carefully. "Sorry. I just thought…"

_—I am one with the Force. I am one with the Force._ The second part of the prayer didn't come as easily, but he trusted in the Force, anyway. _If not this time, then then next. If not this life, then the next. I am one with the Force. The Force is—_

"Sorry, friend," Chirrut said, and blinked, and recovered, let the tension out in a breath. He gave Baze a weak, almost sad smile."I—presumed a lot. I do that, sometimes. Not always correctly. Forgive my haste and my foolishness. We were still headed to the refectory, right? I, ah—seem to have got turned around..."

Baze’s insides twisted around into an incomprehensible knot. He didn’t know _what_ he wanted, now. To stay? To go? Why did it feel like Chirrut was _looking_ at him like that, sad and afraid, when he couldn’t even see? Why did the sudden fear of the outside echo itself as some strange twin emotion in Baze’s chest?

“Are you alright?” Baze asked again, finding a corner of the whole situation that he could approach.. “I didn’t expect—I’m sorry, I was inconsiderate. I didn’t really mean...I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a monk.”

Chirrut smiled again. "I know the feeling."

He only let go of Chirrut again when he was sure that he had his bearings. “If you turn left, the hallways leads straight to the refectory. We just passed the intersection that leads to the stairs down.”

"Ah, thank you," Chirrut said reaching for Baze's arm again, and then thinking better of it. Better not make Baze feel trapped or obligated. That would be cruel. He tapped his stick out in front of him, letting the sound of it striking the familiar stones comfort him.

"Smells like fried rice, tonight. Am I right?" he asked, wanting to talk about _anything_  else so he could pretend Baze would never leave.

If Baze was confused at the start of the conversation, he was downright lost, now. Chirrut, however, was attempting to recover. There was something here that might need to be covered later, something that Chirrut—well, he’d talk about it when he was ready, Baze had confidence. Had he really expected Baze to stay forever?

Well...what they shared was complicated. Baze instinctively lifted his arm to Chirrut’s touch, and pressed the man’s hand against his own skin with his other hand on top, companionable, steadying.

Chirrut felt something in his heart utterly give way at that simple motion. ( _Yes, I expect you to stay. I need you to stay. You need me, so stay_.) But he took the offered hand without comment.

“You’re always right,” Baze said, attempting to pick the conversation back up. “I wouldn’t bet against your nose.”

"Being blind has to have its perks," Chirrut said, but couldn't help how nihilist that sounded to his own ears. They got their bowls and went through the line in silence.

"How many planets have you visited?" Chirrut asked, once they had sat down and he was picking at his rice. "I've only been on Jedha and my home planet."

Baze, meanwhile had to stop shoveling food into his mouth—it was, at least, filling the initial period of still-faintly-awkward silence—in order to give an answer. He thought about it, as he chewed.

“I went wherever the Republic sent me,” Baze said. “And I served in the Clone wars, so—all over the place. Anaxes, Dathomir... dozens of planets. But it was hardly a visit in the way you’d think of it. I never saw very much.”

Not as much as he’d have liked to see, anyway. “I never really got to understand the places I went, so probably it doesn’t really count. Not like I know Jedha, now. I guess even frozen deserts have charm...”

Chirrut nodded in agreement, now finally nibbling his rice.

"Maybe you could tell me about some other planets you visit, when you understand them, too," he suggested. Baze wouldn't leave forever, after all. And he wasn’t leaving yet.


	2. Chapter 2

Chirrut’s reaction stayed with him over the next few weeks, leaving Baze uncertain. Hesitant. At last, he knew he had to go. He liked Chirrut, trusted him, probably had shared more with him than any other person he’s ever met. But, there was something incomplete in Baze—some gap in his experience or the completeness of his being that called him away. 

The order here, the Guardians—they have been experiencing the world as complete people; listening to their selves and staying. Those who are incomplete people—like Dyl—remain too, listless, pointless, sheltered and servile. Baze couldn’t stay as an incomplete person—and whether he would want to when he was whole, when he had learned to chart his own course, was the sort of question no one could answer. What was on the other side of that chasm?

No note would really make it right, and it would only subject Chirrut to having to ask someone to read it to him. Instead, Baze left his apology in a small, round, sweet fruit—an exotic one from the market. A gather of flowers—in all colors, different scents. A handful that he could set beside the fruit, and a tiny, musical set of windchimes. It was the best idea he had. 

Then he went, smuggling himself out of the temple with nothing but what he came in with; his blaster, his old clothes and boots, and his well-healed body. He carried the scars, too, pink and gathered but already paling and fading, and paid his way onto a transport with work, and back out into the galaxy.

…

"He's coming back," Chirrut insisted, balancing on his cot to hang up the windchime by the small window to their cell. 

Nan-in and Alussa looked at each other nervously. 

"Chirrut, maybe..." Nan-in began, but Chirrut went on as if he hadn't heard:

"What color are the flowers?" he asked carefully. 

"Um," Alussa said, her throat tightening for some stupid reason. "The color of the sky, and of your eyes. Peaceful. Also a color like hot coals, or a sunset."

"Also like the sun itself on a clear, cold day," Nan-in supplied. 

Chirrut had his face turned toward the window, smiling. "I shall thank him when he returns." 

There was a silence, and then Alussa and Nan-in gave up.

"Yeah. Of course you will." 

And then Chirrut stumbled coming down from the bed, and for a split second Alussa and Nan-in thought he was going to have a breakdown like a  _ normal _ person, a good cry like a  _ normal  _ person, but then he was reeling dizzily and—   
  
"Oh, shit, oh, shit."    
  
"Not again!"    
  
Chirrut— _ saw _ things, through the Force, sometimes. It wasn't like his “seeing” lines of the Force, like he did every day when he focused. 

These were Visions, the Masters said, and wanted to know the details of each one. But he was usually unhelpful, for it was hard for a man blind from birth to articulate  _ vision _ , transposed directly into his brain without any idea how to process it. 

Also, they gave him headaches, and made his ears ring, throwing off his balance and his only strong connection to the world around him, and he  _ hated _ them. 

Captivity. Pain. Scars. If Baze left now, he wasn't going to come back in one piece.   
  
Nan-in caught him before he hit the floor; he’d seen Chirrut stumble like that before, and knew it meant he’d be helpless for a few minutes. As dramatic as his friend could be—and as strangely faithful to his ideas, once he took them—Nan-in doubted he really wanted to crack his head open on the cell floor for the sake of being dramatic.    
  
“Help me,” he asked Alussa, who covered her mouth with her hands first, briefly, and then hurried forward to help stretch Chirrut out on the floor, working to lay him flat and feel for a temperature.   
  
“Support his head,” Alussa told Nan-in, and between the pair of them, they got their friend lying down unhurt. At least, physically.   
  
“Chirrut,” Nan-in called him back, pillowing his head in a folded blanket and his lap. “What did you see? Are you alright?”    
  
Their voices came to Chirrut as if through water, muffled, and he  _ hated _ that, too. The world around him was spinning like he was caught in a whirlpool, and he felt like he was suffocating only he knew he wasn't (but did he? He couldn't see, couldn't hear, he had no idea where he was!).    
  
Also he was trying not to be sick. It always made him awfully dizzy. And all the while he saw what  _ must _ be Baze, hurt and alone and—and not free.  _ Not free. _ He was supposed to be free he had to be free he  _ left  _ to be free! 

"Don't let him leave," Chirrut moaned, trying to curl onto his side and clutching his head to try to make it  _ stop _ .   
  
“His temperature is going up,” Alussa said, getting up to get a cool cloth for Chirrut, leaving Nan-in to steady him.   
  
“Okay,” Nan-in told Chirrut gently. “It’s alright, Chirrut. I can try and send—somebody.”   
  
Alussa returned quickly, and they both pressed the cool cloth over Chirrut’s forehead, right down over his closed eyelids, too, to try and help ground him. “We should send someone after—”   
  
Alussa shook her head. “He’s already gone, I’m sure of it. A couple of transports left this morning...”   
  
“But we should...” Nan-in wasn’t sure what they should do. Chirrut was clearly a mess. Was this just grief, or was he really seeing something in the future that was dangerous. “I mean, it’s his—”   
  
“We have to make sure Chirrut’s okay,” Alussa interrupted. “That’s what we can do right now.”   
  
Focused on not being sick (since there was little else he could focus on except what he  _ supposed _ was Baze, because he felt like Baze, the lines that he recognized in the Force mapped onto him how he expected them to, but he was in  _ pain _ ), Chirrut took a few deep breaths, scrabbling for something to hold onto in this mess.    
  
When he was small, the doctors on his home planet said it was an inner ear issue that caused extreme vertigo for short bouts of time, but that didn't explain the  _ visions _ , nor why they lasted so long. He could only endure, and he grabbed onto a hand, a wrist that was holding something cool over his eyes. Alussa, maybe, or Nan-in. He couldn't even  _ tell _ .    
  
"Okay, it's not stopping. We might try to move him," Alussa said, and Nan-in only looked worried.    
  
"Maybe we should call a healer." 

"Dipshit, I  _ am _ a healer." she snapped. "Get me a pillow, we need to get him onto his back, turn his head, and hold him like that for a few minutes. Get the pillow right under his neck." 

The cool cloth over his eyes probably only helped her, so she didn't have to look at his eyes twitching helplessly in their sockets as his body tried to figure out which way was up.   
  
“Here, trade places with me,” Nan-in said, mildly, letting her anger wash over him like a tide without holding onto it—of course she was upset. He was too. She didn’t mean to snap, she was just in a hurry. So he helped her get the pillow under Chirrut’s shoulders and then traded places with her.    
  
“Chirrut,” Alussa warned. “Things are going to get worse for a few seconds, okay? I’m going to try and—well, equalize you, I guess.”   
  
“I thought this wasn’t supposed to happen very often?” Nan-in said, as Alussa held one hand under the back of Chirrut’s head and guided it first left—despite his protests at it being worse—holding him there gently until thirty seconds had passed and he seemed to relax.   
  
“Well, it hasn’t happened in a while,” Alussa said, “that makes it not very often, right? Chirrut, I’m going to turn you the other way. Be ready, okay? This time will be really dizzy.”   
  
She turned him so he was facing the other way, her hand still steady under the back of his head. “Tell me when it stops spinning and we’ll see if we can’t make it stick.”    
  
'Dizzy,' 'really dizzy' and 'fucked up beyond all reason' had kind of lost meaning when the world suddenly steadied—now like a boat caught in choppy waves compared to being a bug shaken up inside a jar by a child. 

"...ut. Chirrut? Chirrut Îmwe," were the first words he heard as he returned to himself. He had felt his friends helping him, knew they were  _ there _ , but he hadn't heard them, that was how bad it was this time, it had even messed with his hearing—though of course he had been comforted by the wom wom wom of her voice, even if he couldn't understand the words. 

"I—still might be sick," he warned. 

"That's okay, Chirrut. Just breathe, and try not to move. We just need you to keep your head like this for a few minutes," Alussa was telling him. 

"'Kay," he answered, in a small voice. Slowly, his body unkotted, uncurled, and he realized there were more hands on him, steadying him. Someone was stroking his hair. Chirrut knew he really had the best friends in the whole galaxy. He found a hand and squeezed it in gratitude. "S-sorry. How long?"    
  
"Not long. You're still in our cell," Nan-in said.    
  
Chirrut's mind felt like so much soup. He could barely even remember what it was he saw, or thought he saw. He was trying not to think about it, honestly.   
  
“You can just lay here until you feel okay,” Alussa said. “You’re back with us, right? I’d ask how many fingers I was holding up, but...”   
  
“Two,” Nan-in supplied, eagerly.   
  
“ _ Nan-in _ ,” she said, and then laughed, a nervous sound that released stress more than anything else. She gently pet Chirrut’s fuzzy, short hair. “Are you still dizzy at all? Do you feel faint?”    
  
"Yes. And yes," Chirrut said slowly. He blinked, finding tears in his eyes. "Um, could you, um." He swallowed down the rise of bile again as his brain lurched inside his skull. He groaned. "Will you make sure the flowers have water? Please?"    
  
Alussa and Nan-in frowned at each other. Of course he remembered  _ that _ .    
  
"You can have the fruit," he offered, as if in exchange for being so much trouble. "I think I'll be, mm, fasting. For a few days." 

No food made by human or god could tempt him now, not even fruits plucked for him by his soulmate.   
  
“I’ll get some water and a vase,” Nan-in volunteered.   
  
“Don’t go anywhere until you help me get him back into bed,” Alussa said, to prevent him from slipping out and leaving her with all the heavy lifting. “I’m going to hold your head still and we’ll lift you straight up, Chirrut. So you can stop laying on the floor at least.”   
  
“At least you took the dangerous end,” Nan-in muttered, lifting Chirrut’s feet as she lifted his head and they made the short trip back up onto the cot, jostling him as little as possible and propping him up so he’d be comfortable.

“Okay,” she said. “Now go get water.”

Nan-in left them, and Alussa took Chirrut’s hand, sitting on the bed next to him. “It’s going to be alright, Chirrut. I know it feels terrible right now, but you have to have faith in the Force. Which definitely isn’t as comforting as being able to put your arms around someone, but...there’s always the Force. So, you’re always connected.” 

Chirrut began to nod, then thought better of it. 

"I know. I know, I'm sorry if I worried you."  He swallowed again, curling up on his cot. "I'm not worried about me. I have you and Nan-in, and all our sisters and brothers and Masters, and we are all One with the Force. I'm never alone or lonely. I'm worried about Baze."

“Ah but he has the Force too, even if he hasn’t realized it yet,” Alussa said, pulling his blanket up over him. “And at least one person waiting for him, which is more than he had before he came here, I think. That means a lot.”   
  
"Thanks," Chirrut said softly, smiling.   
  
She picked up the cloth she’d put on his head, and folded it up, running it through her hands until it dripped in her lap. “Besides, the Force gave him those big strong shoulders for something, anyway. Do you want me to try the maneuver again, or do you want to see if it settles for you by staying still?”   
  
"He  _ does _ have big strong shoulders, doesn't he?" Chirrut said, perking up for the first time, a bit of himself returning. "And, thanks, but no thanks. If we do the maneuver again I really will puke on you."   
  
"Hey, man, so long as it's not me this time." Nan-in reappeared with a vase, setting it up and sticking the flowers in, casting an anxious look at Chirrut, and Alussa, who gave him an encouraging nod. It was going to be okay—Chirrut was pretty tough, after all.    
  
“Do you want me to finish hanging up the wind chimes?” Nan-in asked, lifting the tinkling arrangement of string and metal tubes.   
  
"Oh no, did I drop it?" Chirrut said, nearly surging up, but Alussa held him to the mattress.    
  
"Easy. Just needs one pin," Nan-in said, placing his feet on the edges of Chirrut's cot to reach up and push it firmly into place. "There. Every time it sings, I can think of all the things I'll do to him for leaving you here like this."    
  
"Nan-in," Chirrut scolded. He was worried enough about Baze.   
  
“I’ll only beat him up a little,” Nan-in promised. “I can use the practice at drinking crane form, anyway.”   
  
Alussa got up, giving Chirrut an encouraging pat. “I have to go do my shift in the infirmary. I’ll come check on you halfway through, okay? Try to drink some water, slowly.”   
  
“I’ll stay with him, Alussa,” Nan-in promised.    
  
“Don’t you have a duty today?” she wondered, but she didn’t harp on it, instead heading out to do what she was supposed to, leaving it up to Nan-in if he wanted to skip his chores and get in trouble. 

"You don't need to stay," Chirrut said. "I'll probably only throw up on you." 

Nan-in chuckled. "I can clean the baths any time. I thought maybe you'd like to go there later."

Chirrut blinked. "You're too nice to me." 

"Also there's this fruit here nobody's eating," Nan-in said, popping some into his mouth. "You're welcome. Rest, Chirrut. I'll practice my forms to get ahead of you again. What number are you on?" 

"Six-thousand two-hundred and seven," Chirrut said. "No, six. I need your help with seven."

"Whenever I get there, you got it."

Nan-in thought the fruit was a very good apology, but the wind chimes were brilliant. They made soft music, lulling, and he sat back to keep an eye on Chirrut, but found his breathing evening out, his body slipping easily into the meditation he spent so long chasing on usual days, just by matching his breathing to his friend’s. He keeps his thoughts busy on the subject of destiny for the rest of the afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

>  ****  
> [77\. No Attachment to Dust](http://www.ashidakim.com/zenkoans/zenindex.html)  
>  Zengetsu, a Chinese master of the T'ang dynasty, wrote the following advice for his pupils:
> 
> Living in the world yet not forming attachments to the dust of the world is the way of a true Zen student.
> 
> When witnessing the good action of another encourage yourself to follow his example. Hearing of the mistaken action of another, advise yourself not to emulate it.
> 
> Even though alone in a dark room, be as if you were facing a noble guest. Express your feelings, but become no more expressive than your true nature.
> 
> Poverty is your treasure. Never exchange it for an easy life.
> 
> A person may appear a fool and yet not be one. He may only be guarding his wisdom carefully.
> 
> Virtues are the fruit of self-discipline and do not drop from heaven of themselves as does rain or snow.
> 
> Modesty is the foundation of all virtues. Let your neighbors discover you before you make yourself known to them.
> 
> A noble heart never forces itself forward. Its words are as rare gems, seldom displayed and of great value.
> 
> To a sincere student, every day is a fortunate day. Time passes but he never lags behind. Neither glory nor shame can move him.
> 
> Censure yourself, never another. Do not discuss right and wrong.
> 
> Some things, though right, were considered wrong for generations. Since the value of righteousness may be recognized after centuries, there is no need to crave an immediate appreciation.
> 
> Live with cause and leave results to the great law of the universe. Pass each day in peaceful contemplation.


End file.
